The Shoobie
by thenoob
Summary: Bella is one of the locals in a tiny island town, and each year she watches the summer visitors, aka shoobies, come and go. She doesn't like them, and she doesn't trust them. Until one summer, when everything changes...Rated M/AH/ExB.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a collaboration with another writer who is not a noob...but she wishes to remain anonymous. **

**Please let us know what you think!**

**Disclaimer: Twilight is the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Many thanks to my beta CM. **

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THE SHOOBIE

Chapter 1

BPOV

I started working at the Shaw Island Diner when I was four. My dad owned the place, and he put me to work as soon as I could handle it. Well, I wouldn't call it work. But I can still remember those early mornings a dozen years ago, greeting the locals as they came in. These days, my regular customers still reminded me of those formative years of my childhood. I had been working as a waitress for two years now, but there was something to be said for humble beginnings.

My dad Charlie inherited the diner from his parents, but he was also the Shaw Island chief of police. Then again, on an island of 842 people, he didn't see a whole lot of action as a cop. In the summer, when the population tripled with the influx of summer vacationers and weekenders, he saw a little bit more. But even then, he never had to deal with much more than an occasional bar fight. Everything about this little spit of land in the middle of nowhere—well, the San Juan islands, to be precise—was predictable.

I didn't mind it, really. At least I was a local. Locals viewed the summer visitors as a bunch of unwelcome, but necessary guests. They arrived in cable-knit sweaters and loafers, never leaving home without their Raybans. The ferry dropped most of them off on Friday afternoons, and took them back to Seattle or Vancouver or wherever they came from on Sunday evenings. The ferry service made a few trips daily in the summer, but it didn't even operate in the winter. We lived here in our own little world for nine months of the year, enjoying the peace and quiet of the off-season.

Some of my friends looked forward to the summers; they liked the excitement of new, unfamiliar people, the change in routine. Sure, I got a little tired of seeing the same people every single day of my life, but I didn't delude myself into thinking that the tourists were somehow superior to us. Their lives weren't all that exciting either, even though they lived in big cities with high rises and twenty-four hour grocery stores. We didn't need that, and it irritated me every time some rich guy came in here asking me why the diner closed at 8 pm. If you're hungry at 8:30, get a snack from the goddamn fridge. Jesus.

I must have snarled just thinking about it, because the guy in the booth didn't look happy. He had his menu laid out before him, his reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. I could see the sheen of sweat on his brow, probably due to the cable-knit sweater. Didn't these people know how to adjust to heat waves? And why was he even here? Next weekend was Memorial Day. This tool had jumped the gun.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "Can you say that again?"

"I said I'd like the Breakfast Combo."

"Okay…" I said, wishing he would just tell me how he wanted his eggs cooked, what kind of toast he preferred, and whether he liked bacon or sausage so I didn't have to bother with asking. The locals never asked. The locals knew what they wanted and they had the sense to fill me in on the specifics.

"How would you like your eggs cooked?" I asked, when I realized he wasn't getting the gist of this.

Scrambled_, _I thought_. _The tourists always like it scrambled.

"Scrambled," he said. "With a little bit of cheese."

Uh huh. Cheese my ass. Ben, the cook, didn't do cheese.

"What kind of toast would you like?" I asked.

_Don't ask it. Please, don't—_

"What kind do you have?"

Ugh.

"White, wheat, or rye."

Wheat, I thought. Definitely wheat.

"Wheat, then."

"Bacon or sausage?"

I was two for three. _Say bacon…_

"Bacon."

The theory was rock-solid after all these years of working here. The rich folk liked their food a certain way, almost like some kind of secret code. I somehow managed to stop myself from rolling my eyes, and instead produced a weak, artificial smile that seemed to placate him.

"Great," I said. "That'll just be a few minutes."

He said nothing as I walked away, sighing loudly as I headed towards the kitchen. Rosalie was leaning against the hot plate, texting with nimble fingers as she waited for an order to come up.

"Let me guess," she said. "Eggs scrambled, wheat toast, bacon. Coffee with two sugars, two creamers."

"How'd you know?" I smirked.

"Oh, Bella. I know _everything_. Don't you know that by now?"

I rolled my eyes. "Right. Who are you texting now?"

"Oh, some guy from last summer."

"That frat boy from Seattle? The one who claims his dad's cousin's friend's roommate plays golf with Bill Gates every other month?"

"You're mean," she said, but I was already laughing. Rosalie picked up the hottest guys, but that was their only redeeming quality. And they all thought their wealth and experience and ridiculous knowledge about "urban living" would impress us. And maybe it did impress Rosalie—I really had no idea. But it irritated me, and for that reason, she had a million phone numbers, and I had none.

"Come on, Bella. Take advantage of the summer. Have a fling."

"I don't want a fling. And I especially don't want a fling with some random shoobie."

The word "shoobie" had its roots in South Jersey, where my mom grew up. She always used it to describe the people that went down the shore in the summer months, but spent the rest of the year living and working in Philadelphia. I had adopted the word as a kid, and it kind of stuck. Plus we could use it within earshot of the shoobies themselves, and no one ever knew what we were talking about.

"Why are you so against it?" she asked. "It's not like they're _that_ repulsive. And aren't you sick of hanging out with the same people over and over again? I mean, please tell me you aren't just a little bit bored with Mike's constant attempts to, you know, 'accidentally' touch your boobs."

"This is a tiny town, Rose. Everyone knows everyone else's business. I don't want to walk into school on the first day of junior year and hear everyone talking about my clichéd attempt to nail a tourist."

She shrugged. "Fine. But I'm not stupid, Bella. I know you have your eye on someone."

I shifted my weight, focused on a stray mark on the floor. But she didn't elaborate, because Rosalie liked to see me squirm. And if she really did know about, well, him, then I would have to consider the possibility that she had some kind of telepathic skill.

"Who?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Rosalie enjoyed these tense silences. I could see that she intended to milk every drop of this one.

"Oh, you know, Bella," she said. "Don't play coy with me."

"I'm not being coy. You're just full of shit."

"Uh huh," she leered.

"Then tell me."

"No."

"Rosalie!"

"Jeez, Bella, I was just kidding," she said, reaching up for the plates of steaming pancakes that Ben, our cook and classmate, had just slid onto the hot plate. She draped her dishtowel over her wrists, and arranged all five plates on one arm.

"Oh," I muttered.

"But it sure seems like I was on to something…do you really have a crush?"

"Psh, no," I huffed.

"You do!" she squealed. "That neon blush of yours always gives you away."

She was laughing now, her eyes glimmering with the hint of something scandalous. I had to shoot this down now. Hard.

"On who, Rosalie? Mike? Ben? Come on."

"Not a local," she said. "A shoobie."

"Oh, please."

She threw a few packets of butter onto the plates, and flipped her long blonde hair over her shoulder. I had long ago lost my taste for diner food, but the pancakes still smelled incredible. Syrup and butter and blueberries—that combination was tough to beat. I used to come here with my friends after school, but that ritual had dissolved a few years ago. Now it seemed like everyone in my class went to the bleachers after school, and had some kind of massive make-out session in the most clichéd place imaginable.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," she said, smirking at me as she walked out of the kitchen. "Just give me a few weeks."

***

I first saw him six summers ago, on the coldest Fourth of July in the island's history. Even my dad said he couldn't remember a colder summer, with the near-constant rain and strong ocean breeze. Something happened with the currents that year, and even the ocean never warmed up. The first month of that summer had been the most miserable four weeks of my life. Back then, I looked forward to the summers. Back then, I looked forward to seeing the shoobies like everyone else.

Every year on the Fourth of July, the whole island would gather on the south shore to watch the fireworks from Mr. Jenks' barge. I didn't think you could own a private barge, but Mr. Jenks did. And every summer, he loaded that thing full of fireworks, which he purchased during the prior week's excursion to the mainland. He put on a legendary show every year, and it was the only weekend when the ferry rides sold out, the restaurants and stores stayed open late, and the locals and shoobies mingled at the local pub. They really had no choice, because Mr. Gray refused to limit the capacity at his bar. He didn't card anyone, of course, and last year I went with Rosalie and a few other friends. I had gotten my taste of a raging nightlife, and decided I didn't want to deal with it ever again.

But that summer six years ago, everyone figured Mr. Jenks would cancel the fireworks show. All day I had sat at my bedroom window, begging God to stop the rain from falling. I wasn't particularly religious, but that day, I didn't know what else to do. So I asked and begged and cried, but at eight o'clock, an hour before the show was set to start, the torrential downpour was still in full, unrelenting swing. I went downstairs to find my dad sitting in his favorite chair, watching the Boston fireworks on television.

I could tell just by looking at his comfy chair, half-empty beer, and TV dinner that he didn't want to take me anywhere, least of all outside. But my mom had died a few years earlier, and for that reason—maybe more than any other—he couldn't deny me my favorite holiday. So Charlie took me by the hand, adjusted my raincoat, and walked with me down to the beach in the pouring rain.

When we got there, a few people were huddled under umbrellas, looking out towards the sea. I looked up at my dad, who just squeezed my hand and kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. The last rays of the sun melted into the depths of the Pacific, casting a warm shadow of clouds and rain and darkness on the shore.

When the rain stopped, I didn't even notice the change at first. A few stars penetrated the thick cloud cover, and for the first time all summer, I could see the full moon peeking out from behind the clouds. Within a few minutes, the whole sky lit up in a glorious explosion of light and sound, and I smiled so wide that I thought my expression of pure joy would be permanently etched on my face. My dad was smiling, too, but it wasn't the innocent, ebullient smile of a kid on the Fourth of July. His was wistful, almost sad, in that way it always was when he thought of her. And even though I didn't remember her, I thought about her, too. My mom was a Jersey girl. She would have loved Mr. Jenks' fireworks show.

The children always ran to the water when the show started, and my dad watched me go as I sprinted across the dunes. There were only a few other families here tonight, unlike every other Fourth of July I had ever known. But it didn't matter. Fireworks were fireworks, and I knew Mr. Jenks would rise to the occasion.

But as I looked around, hoping to glimpse the familiar face of Rosalie or Mike or Ben, I noticed with a deep pit in my stomach that I didn't recognize any of the other kids. They were all tourists, determined to get their money's worth on a summer weekend. I hated sharing this show with them, especially on a night like tonight. They probably didn't even like fireworks. They just wanted to compare Mr. Jenks' self-designed fireworks show to the fancy extravaganza they had in Seattle or the suburbs.

When I turned around to go back to my dad and abandon all these stupid strangers, my impulsive plan to ditch the firework show vanished at the sight of a boy standing alone at the water's edge. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his bare feet buried in the sand, his eyes gazing upward. When the fireworks lit up the sky, I could make out the fiery bronze of his hair, the piercing green of his eyes. He was smiling, too, and it was the most innocent, most boyish, most genuine smile I had ever seen. He liked fireworks. He had probably dragged his dad down here, just as I had.

He never looked over at me, but I kept stealing glances at him during the brief lags in the show. I imagined where he lived, what his parents did, what kind of school he went to. I could picture his life in a big city; maybe he lived in one of those high rises with a doorman and a fancy gold lobby. Maybe his dad really did know Bill Gates, and they played golf every weekend instead of just a few times a year. And his school probably had hundreds of kids, with brand new classrooms and books and microscopes and really cool things that we didn't have. By the time the show ended, I had created a very detailed picture of this boy's life. And it didn't matter if it was true or not. It didn't matter, because we lived in different worlds, and our lives would never overlap anyway.

I shook my head to dismiss such a silly fantasy, but when I took my first step away from the water, he turned his body ever so slightly and looked at me. His eyes met mine, his gaze every bit as intense as I had imagined it to be. And then he smiled, that boyish, crooked smile that made me blush.

With a shy smile of my own, I headed for the dunes, and never looked back.

***

"So, Angela's party. You're going, right?"

Rosalie managed to tear herself away from her cell phone for three seconds to ask me this question, which she had already asked at least six times. Angela's Memorial Day Rager had become something of a legend, since she managed to attract so many random people last year. Her house sat on the main street, right between the police station and the liquor store, so some might say it had a little bit of everything to offer. The fear of arrest, the allure of cheap booze…yes, Angela's parties had it all.

My dad, of course, busted the party last year. I thought my friends might give me a hard time about it, but the whole "Charlie-busted-in-here-and-laid-down-the-law" made the party sound cooler than it actually was. My dad hired a few more deputies for the summer months, but even then, an end-of-the-year high school party fell pretty low on the priority list. Plus my dad had grown up here, and he knew as well as anyone that underage drinking was going to happen no matter what. Angela, for her part, had tried to prohibit alcoholic beverages—or at least really obvious containers of booze—but the shoobies had caught wind of the party and shot that plan to hell. But Angela didn't mind, since the whole damn thing was such a hit with every teenager on the island.

"So are you going?" she asked again.

"I guess so," I muttered. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, and counted twelve dollars in tips. At least the summer would mean a pay raise, if nothing else.

"Try not to sound so excited," Rosalie teased, jabbing me in the ribs. I faked a moan of pain.

"So is your boy going?" I asked.

"Who?"

"The one you keep texting."

"Oh, well, I don't have just _one_ boy, Bella. Who do you take me for?"

My eyes widened. "You've been texting multiple guys?"

"Yes, so you can have my sloppy seconds."

I rolled my eyes and smiled, amused by Rosalie's unique generosity. I couldn't imagine a universe in which I threw myself at Rosalie's sloppy seconds, but hey, maybe it could happen. If everyone paired up and materialized at the bleachers for a mass orgy, I might start feeling desperate.

Yeah, right. Seriously, on an island this beautiful—and romantic, if I were into that kind of thing—people chose the bleachers as their make-out spot? For a place characterized by massive pines, swirling fog, and the crashing waves of the Pacific, you would think people might show some kind of creativity.

"Thanks, Rose. Appreciate it."

"You will later, Bellers."

"Ugh, I hate it when you call me that."

"I know," she giggled. "But maybe your crush will think it's cute."

"Rosalie, seriously. I don't have a crush."

"Maybe he'll be at the party."

"Yes, because non-existent people show up at parties all the time."

She climbed into her car, that familiar little gleam in her eyes. That gleam meant she had a plan, and her plans always ended with me looking stupid. And red in the face, like a kid with a big, embarrassing secret. That was a guarantee.

"Whatever," she said. "So come over Friday night? We can gossip over cheap vodka."

"Sure," I sighed.

On Friday night of Memorial Weekend, alcohol sounded like a great idea. It was, for me, the start of summer, and the worst day of the year. I'd rather just skip it altogether if I could. But Rosalie, of course, had started a countdown to this particular night since the day after last year's party. She would never let me miss it.

"Good," she said. "Look hot."

***

Hotness for me consisted of jeans—my most comfortable pair—and a t-shirt. The shirt was new, although Shaw Island didn't have much in the way of shopping. Rosalie had forced me to buy something tighter than, well, all my other shirts, which fit like football jerseys. Not that I owned any of those, but it had the same effect. Oversized clothing made it harder for Mike Newton to touch my boobs "accidentally," since he couldn't figure out where they were under a shirt that could have fit my dad.

In any case, I knew Rosalie would just force me to wear something even sluttier than this shirt if I showed up in my usual attire. She was tall, blonde, gorgeous, and she looked like a model every time she stepped out the door. I always felt average next to her, in spite of her every attempt to boost my confidence. Confidence wasn't really my problem, though—I accepted my brown hair, brown eyes, and all-around awkwardness. I wasn't looking for a husband at this point, so it didn't really matter, right? Plus I liked my job, loved my dad, enjoyed my life, and I didn't have any real urge to change it. I could watch all my childhood friends ogle at the shoobies, and feel satisfied that I didn't feel the same way. And in that way, maybe, I had something they lacked.

My dad had spent the rest of the week preparing for the summer season, and I hadn't seen much of him since last weekend. I worked at the diner on weekends, and maybe a couple nights a week. Rosalie and I made up half the wait staff in the winter, but in the summer, my dad always hired a few more. Sometimes we got stuck with old ladies, sometimes we had to deal with a bubbly summer worker. He never hired locals, because he knew he would just have to let them go in September anyway. Charlie trusted me and Rosalie, and coming from a cop—even though he was my dad—that meant a lot.

I locked the door behind me as I headed out the front door—we only locked it in the summer, for obvious reasons—and walked the half-mile to Rosalie's house in the waning afternoon light. It was a hot, sunny afternoon, which usually forecasted a very busy weekend ahead. I groaned just thinking about it. Why couldn't winter last all year?

Rosalie was waiting for me when I got there, sitting on the steps with that mischievous grin on her face. I didn't really share her excitement for this party, but her good moods were always contagious. When she smiled, I smiled, too. When she laughed, the whole room laughed with her. Rosalie was more than my best friend. She was like a sister, and in some ways, like the mother I never really had. Well, a mother who advocated drinking and random make-outs, but still. She gave me advice when I needed it, and she knew exactly what I was thinking without saying a word.

I sat down next to her, and pulled my knees up to my chest. I noticed the bottle of cheap-ass vodka by her side, and a carton of orange juice in her hand.

"I'm underage," I said, teasing her.

"So am I," she said, taking a shot of vodka in one swift, fluid motion. I could never do shots. I always ended up gagging and choking and asking for a screwdriver instead.

"Go," she said, handing me the shot glass.

"I can't. My mouth is too small."

"Better not be. But you'll rise to the occasion when the time comes."

I took the glass, studied it, and brought it to my lips. Smelled like rubbing alcohol. Maybe it was, for all I knew.

I looked over at her, noticed a little smirk on her face.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said, a little too sweetly.

"You said something dirty, didn't you?"

"I didn't _say_ anything dirty. I might have implied something, though."

"Ugh," I groaned, rolling my eyes. But I was smiling as I took the carton of juice from her, and tried to chase, then drink, then chase again. As predicted, I choked on the distasteful combination, and most of it ended up on Rosalie's front porch.

"God, you're remedial," she laughed, taking another shot. At this rate, we would both be stumbling before we even got to the party.

"Thanks," I muttered, going for half a shot this time. It worked out better than the last one, even though my throat was still burning from the aftertaste. This was some cheap-ass vodka, which meant a nasty hangover tomorrow. And I had to work tomorrow, which meant a long, miserable day ahead.

"That shirt looks nice on you," Rosalie said, gesturing to my plain red t-shirt. It was a loud, vibrant red, but she had insisted on it, since red was apparently my color.

"Well, you picked it out."

"I know," she said. "But I'm not wearing it. You should flaunt your assets more often."

"What assets?"

"Just you, Bella. You're a hot piece of ass. When are you going to realize that?"

I don't know where I inherited such an overactive circulatory system, but I could feel my cheeks turning their telltale red at her misguided enthusiasm for my "hotness." Rosalie exuded sex appeal in every way, and she knew how to maximize the effect. It didn't surprise me that she had rallied eight guys from last summer to crash Angela's party. I could have sloppy seconds, and thirds, and….many more, apparently.

"There's no point in flaunting myself in front of our friends, Rose. I'm not interested in any of them anyway."

"Yes, I know, but this is summer. This is different."

"How?"

"I just think you should take it upon yourself this summer to change some things."

"Like what?"

She sighed, poured herself another drink.

"Think of it as a summer challenge," she said. "Just make out with one shoobie. Okay? That's all I ask. He can be fugly, if you want. Just have a teeny, tiny fling. For me."

I watched as she downed her third shot, licking her lips as she studied the empty glass. At this point, Rosalie was beyond chasers. When she drank, she always did shots of alcohol and nothing else. She hated the taste, and just liked to get the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible. Rosalie had never admitted this to anyone but me, since most people seemed to drink and enjoy it. But I definitely did not enjoy it. Sure, getting tipsy was fun, but then there was the social weirdness, the drunken dancing, the hangover…

I tried to shake those thoughts as I took the bottle from Rosalie, and took one more swig of that nasty shit. She watched me and grinned, satisfied that I had downed three-quarters of a shot without choking on it.

"So you want me to have a fling?" I asked.

"Yes. This summer, one fling for Bella Swan."

"Define fling," I said. She stood up, and held out her hand to pull me to my feet. I could already feel the buzz clouding my thoughts, slowing everything down. I might even enjoy this party, as long as I didn't lash out at a shoobie like I did last year.

"Well," she mused. "A fling for me would be a summer of wild, intense, passionate lovemaking—"

"Oh, come on," I said, rolling my eyes. Rosalie had lost her virginity precisely eight weeks earlier, to one of her older brother's friends. They had known each other since birth, and Rosalie had propositioned him one night while watching television. She was impulsive like that, and when her mind was made up about something, Rosalie went ahead and did it. She didn't waste time second-guessing herself like I did.

"Okay, fine," she said. "But I mean, it would have a lot of make-outs, late-night escapades, and romantic walks along the beach. And then when the summer ends, the fling ends."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning a fling is just a fling, Bella. You obviously don't have to go and fall head over heels in love with someone. In fact, that is Rule Number One when it comes to summer flings: you can't actually like the person all that much, or you'll get attached."

"So you want me to have a fling with someone I don't like? That sounds great, Rose," I said, laying on the sarcasm.

"Well, think about it. If you have a fling with a shoobie, it means he'll be leaving in September. And you will most likely never see him again, unless he comes back next summer. And chances are that next summer, he won't even remember you. Or, you know, he'll probably be with someone else."

"Wow," I said. "Sounds like you have a lot of faith in my ability to make a lasting impression."

She smiled, shook her head. "You know what I mean, Bella. I'm just being realistic. You never want to get attached to a summer fling."

"So then why bother?"

She stopped walking, her blue eyes studying mine. "You plan on getting attached?"

"Well, no," I said. "Of course not. I'm just saying that it sounds hard to have a nice romantic fling with someone without getting attached."

"Yeah, well, nice romantic flings aren't realistic. They happen in movies, but that's about it. I mean, look at The Notebook. She almost married someone else. See? Bad idea."

Whenever Rosalie referenced The Notebook, I knew she meant business. I didn't like to admit to the general public how many times she had subjected me to Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling's sappy reunion in the rain. Too many times. Way too many times.

"So then, what?" I asked. "Just a make-out?"

"Yeah, just a make-out. And hey, if you do it tonight, you'll get it over with!"

"And if I don't do it?" I asked.

She smiled that devious little grin of hers, and shrugged her shoulders. "If you don't do it, then I'll make my brother fling you."

"Ew, Jasper? I'm not going near your brother, Rosalie."

Jasper wasn't gross—not at all. In fact, he was way out of my league, and I didn't want to subject him to my inexperience. Plus he had just spent his first year of college at Berkeley, which was probably the headquarters of cool. I had only seen pictures of California, and it looked to me like another world.

"Well, sorry, hon. You don't have a choice."

"Fine," I mumbled. "I don't see any upside to this challenge, though."

"You will," she said. "You hate the shoobies, and I'm trying to get you to see the light. There's a whole other world out there, Bella. One day, maybe you'll want to live in it."

"You mean leave Shaw Island?" I looked at her, shook my head. This was home, and I had no reason to leave. Sure, I might go to college on one of the main islands, but I had no desire to go any farther than that. I could open another restaurant, maybe, since I knew so much about the food industry. Well, I knew a lot about diners. That was probably sufficient, especially on an island this small.

"Don't you ever think about getting away?"

"Of course I do," I said, but even I could hear the insincerity in my voice. Maybe at one point in my life, years ago, I had dreamed of big cities and state universities and a fancy career. But at sixteen, I didn't want those things anymore. My dad would be devastated if I left, especially since Renee was gone. I couldn't leave him here with nothing but memories.

"You never know what's around the corner, Bella. Things change."

"I'm happy here," I said. "I have everything I could ever want."

"Well, then, that's good," she said. "But maybe one day, you'll want different things."

I nodded, thinking about a future that wasn't meant to be. I would never leave here. I had accepted that; I would always be a local.

"Come on," she said. "Let's have fun tonight."

We stopped in front of Angela's house, the deep pulse of the music reverberating across the street. A few people were sitting on the front porch, talking and laughing and having fun. I didn't recognize them, but Rosalie did. She hugged the lot of them, and managed a few quick introductions as I shook their hands and forced a smile. They looked so goddamn preppy, with their popped collars and cashmere sweaters. I felt like gagging, but I put on a convincing show for Rosalie's sake. With another beer or two, I probably wouldn't give a shit about what clothes anyone was wearing, but it bothered me now.

"Beer?" one of them asked me, handing me a can of something cold and nasty.

"Sure," I said, taking it from him without so much as a smile. I looked at Rosalie, and nodded toward the front door.

"I'm going inside," I said. "I should say hi to Angela."

"Okay," she said, grasping my wrist before I could move. She pulled me closer, and said in a hushed, but serious voice.

"Be open-minded, Bella," she said. "And be nice."

"I _am_ nice," I replied in the same hushed tone. The guy who had handed me the beer was giving me a weird look, and I couldn't tell if my rude behavior had insulted him or turned him on.

"You know what I mean," she said. And with a quick squeeze of my wrist, she let me go.

I walked inside without knocking, which seemed like the right thing to do given the volume of the music. The halls were already packed with people, their body heat and sweat saturating the air. I tried to maneuver my way down the hallway and into the kitchen, but I had never in my life experienced such a mosh pit. People were dancing in the living and dining room, and the hallway was a bottleneck. After ten minutes, I finally made my way to the end of the hall, and was rewarded by a much less crowded kitchen. There was a keg in the corner, and I decided to hide out there for a bit.

But when I got there, I saw Mike lurking around the beer like the vulture he was. The laundry room had a back door, so I slipped through the kitchen and headed in that direction. The door opened into a expansive back yard, shaded in pine and willow trees. Once again, I didn't notice the people standing out here—the shoobies far outnumbered the locals, and this party was no exception to the shift in population dynamics that characterized the summer months. I glimpsed a tree at the far edge of the yard, a nice place to catch my breath and collect my thoughts. Not that I really had many deep thoughts, given the beer and all. But at least I wouldn't have to deal with so many sweaty, gyrating individuals.

When I took that first step off the back porch, though, I misjudged the landing. I stumbled and fell, landing on the patio with a dull thud. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice, and I scrambled to my feet and headed for my salvation at the corner of the yard. I could just stand by that tree for a while, and wait until Mike Newton passed out so he couldn't cop another surreptitious feel.

When the tree was just twenty feet away, I caught a glimpse of something moving on the other side of the trunk, and for a minute I thought it must be the very palpable buzz now clouding my consciousness. But as I got closer, I could make out the vague outline of a person standing behind that tree, his voice carrying over the wind. I slipped behind the nearest tree, and craned my neck for a better view. Usually, I would just move on to a different tree and forget all about this cellphone-obsessed shoobie, but he had the most musical, most beautiful voice I had ever heard. I wondered for a few seconds if I had imagined it.

But as he kept speaking in low, hushed tones, I couldn't keep myself from moving closer. I was just a few feet away now, his conversation still barely out of earshot. I debated taking another step, which at this point seemed stupid because if he saw me, he would knew I was eavesdropping. And I had no reason to eavesdrop. I didn't even know this person. My only excuse would be, "well, your voice kind of called to me." Spoken like a true stalker.

My curiosity won out as it often did, but of course I managed to step on a massive branch that groaned and then cracked under my weight. He whirled around, his eyes wide with the sudden sound.

His gaze met mine in a moment of sheer, momentary recognition that took my breath away. His eyes were the same piercing, magnificent green, and for a solid three seconds I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. He ran his hand through his hair—that glorious mess of bronze—and his voice seemed to die in his throat.

In six years, he had changed so much, and yet not at all. He was a cute kid back then, with a devious grin and crazed hair. Now he was older, more refined, more beautiful. I didn't know how else to describe him, really. He was simply the most beautiful human being I had ever seen.

In six years, I had changed in a lot of ways. But in some ways, in other ways, I hadn't changed at all.

And so it didn't surprise me that I left him standing there, just as I had six years ago, and walked back toward the house without saying a word.

-----------------------------------------------


	2. Chapter 2

**The noob, the shoob, and her friend are back. **

**Hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Twilight is the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Many thanks to Beta CM. **

---------------

THE SHOOBIE

Chapter 2

BPOV

I walked back inside to see Mike Newton doing a keg stand in the kitchen, much to the amusement of a crowd of giggling girls. I bypassed them and made my way through the house, scanning the rooms for Rosalie's familiar face.

"Bella!" she squealed, popping up behind me. God, she loved to surprise me. I think she loved it because I hated it.

"Damn it, Rose, you scared the crap out of me!"

"Yeah, well, you scare easily. Why are you wandering solo?"

I looked around, surveying the crowd for a mess of bronze hair. He was taller than most guys I knew, and would have been pretty easy to spot.

"Bella?"

"Sorry," I mumbled. "Well, where are the sloppy seconds you promised me?"

She smiled. "Out front. Do you want to meet them?"

"Not really."

"Come on," she whined. She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd, offering a few flirty hellos to random guys as we went. When we reached the front porch, there was a whole sausage fest happening out there, with Rosalie as the main attraction.

"Hey, boys," she said. She sat on the steps, pulling me down to join her. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just kept my mouth shut.

"I'm James," one of them said to me, extending his hand with a smug smirk on his face. I shook it because it was just plain rude not to, and gave him a fake smile in return. Our unpleasant encounter from earlier had, in fact, turned him on. Typical shoobie.

The rest of the guys introduced themselves, but it took a lot of effort for me to feign interest in who they were and where they came from. They all wore new, preppy clothes, probably from a fancy mall in the suburbs. We didn't have malls on Shaw Island. Once in a while, my dad let me order something online, but all in all, my wardrobe was pretty limited. I didn't envy these guys for their money—their lifestyle didn't appeal to me. It just reminded me of the sizable divide between us, and the fact that as much as we all liked to deny it, the shoobies judged us and we judged them.

"So, Bella," James said. "I heard your dad busted this party last year."

"Yeah," I said. "Year before last, he actually had to shoot someone."

He and the others erupted in laughter. "Good one," he said.

"No, really. And he doesn't carry a handgun. Small guns are pretty useless with all the wildlife around."

He looked down at me, his eyes a little wider than before.

"Then what does he use?"

I shrugged. "A shotgun."

Rosalie was stifling laughter, but these tools were actually buying it. Their expressions tensed up at the thought of my dad busting in here with a loaded shotgun on his hip, and it took everything I had not to burst out laughing.

"Jeezus," he muttered. "Goddamn hillbillies—"

"Bella," Rosalie hissed, stopping me before I had a chance to kick him in the nuts. "So, guys, are you here for the whole summer?"

"Yeah," James said. "We rented a house on Harbor Road for the summer."

"All of you?"

"Yup," one of the other ones said, smirking at Rosalie. Well, she could find another partner in crime to crash their Harbor Road parties. I had no intention of going to the north shore every weekend to meet up with these guys and their keg of cheap beer.

But before Rosalie could verbalize her plan to do exactly that, the front door swung open and Jasper walked out. He sat down between us, and draped his arms over both our shoulders.

"This is my brother," Rosalie said in a rush, easing the tension that had appeared on the guys' faces. I rolled my eyes and downed the last of my warm beer.

"How you doing, Bella?" Jasper asked, flashing me his signature grin. I had always liked Rosalie's brother, with his goofy antics and casual approach toward everything. He never bragged about life in California, although he could have impressed every single girl in this town if he wanted to.

"Can't complain," I said. "But I think I'm actually heading out."

"What?" Rosalie asked, shooting me a chastising glare. "You can't leave yet!"

"Why not?"

My whole body tensed every time that front door opened, and I thought for sure the object of my six-year fixation would come walking out with the most beautiful girl at the party on his arm. I was shocked Rosalie's radar hadn't picked up on him yet.

"It's early!" she said. "Tell her, Jasper."

"Come on, Bella," he said. "Let's scope out the scene, shall we?"

I rolled my eyes as Jasper stood up, and waited for me to do the same. There were worse chaperones than Jasper Hale. At least he wouldn't make me dance.

He opened the door for me—always the chivalrous one, unlike his sister—and followed me inside. The music was loud and obnoxious, the floors sticky with spilled beer. Angela's parents spent every Memorial Day Weekend in Victoria, and we usually spent the rest of the weekend helping her clean up.

We migrated through the hallway to the kitchen, away from all the crazy dancers. Again, I looked for him, and again, I didn't see him. His conversation on the phone had sounded pretty intense—probably a girlfriend—so maybe he had just left. It would be better that way anyway. It didn't do me any good to sit here thinking about someone who clearly didn't remember me.

I recognized a few of my friends standing around the kitchen table, chatting about summer plans. We all stayed here for the summer, and we all found lucrative jobs. I already had one, but all the businesses hired more people in the summer. And the local kids were always in highest demand, in contrast to the flaky shoobies who didn't really need the money.

We started walking in their direction, but a gentle tapping on my shoulder stopped me mid-stride.

_Don't be him_, I thought, as I slowly turned around. _Anyone but him…_

It wasn't him, thank God, but I didn't recognize the person standing there. She was tiny, with short black hair and a warm, friendly smile. She was very petite, and very pretty. I caught Jasper ogling at her, and almost laughed.

"Hey," she said, looking at me and then at Jasper. His mouth was slightly open, and then he flashed her the most flirtatious smile I had ever seen. It almost blinded me.

"Hey," I said, managing a polite smile of my own. I was always guarded around people I didn't know, even though this girl seemed to defy the shoobie stereotype. Her clothes were beautiful, but not at all showy or ostentatious. I recognized her from a few summers ago, but of course she had changed since then. She looked about my age, although her tiny size made her seem far younger.

"I'm Alice," she said, shaking both our hands. "I'm just, um, looking for my brother. I don't know anyone else here."

"Who's your brother?" Jasper asked.

"His name is Edward. Did you meet him, by chance?"

"No, can't say I did," Jasper said. "But you're welcome to hang out with us."

I nodded in agreement, offering this stranger my unopened beer. She took it and smiled, her whole face lighting up at the gesture.

"So, Alice," Jasper said, "what brings you to our humble island?"

"My family summers here every year," she said.

"You've been here every summer and I never noticed you?" Jasper asked, feigning shock. Actually, he really did look surprised, and also wildly disappointed.

"Well, we don't come into town too much. My parents have a house on the north shore, and we use the yacht a lot."

Her voice dropped on the last words, as if she didn't want to admit the whole yacht business. Jasper's eyes widened, but he recovered nicely.

"The north shore, eh?" he asked. "The locals don't get out there much."

"Do you guys live here year round?" she asked. Unlike every other shoobie who asked that question, she didn't say the words with an air of condescension. She seemed genuinely interested, and I had a feeling she wouldn't have asked the question if she didn't care.

"Bella does, since she's still in high school. But I'm at Berkeley now for school."

"Wow, that's so cool," she said. "My family lives in San Francisco."

"No kidding," Jasper said, shooting me a knowing glance. I couldn't help but smile. Even though I had only known this girl for thirty seconds, there was something about the two of them that just worked.

"How about you, Bella?" she asked. "Do you go to high school here?"

I nodded. "I'll be a junior in the fall. Are you…are you in high school?"

"I was," she said. "I'm starting at Stanford in the fall."

"That's great," I said, glimpsing Jasper's smile as it broadened on his face. He was nineteen, and decidedly over "high school girls." At least, that's what he kept telling Rosalie when she asked him why he wasn't chasing Jessica Stanley this summer, like he always did.

"You know, you should really meet my little brother," Alice said. "He's around here somewhere. I don't think he would just leave without me…"

"What does he look like?" Jasper asked. "We can help you hunt him down."

"Oh, well…he's tall, wearing a black jacket, jeans…and his hair is kind of a strange bronze-ish color."

The cold beer halfway down my throat suddenly deviated into the wrong pipe, which turned into an embarrassing coughing fit. The boy from six years ago was this girl's _brother_? And he had a _yacht_?

He wasn't just a shoobie. He was an A-lister. A yuppie to the nth degree. A guy who definitely ordered scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and bacon every time he went out for breakfast.

But for all the stereotypes that swarmed in my head, Alice didn't seem the yuppie type. She was kind, genuine, and humble. She hadn't made a pointed attempt to hang out with the rich kids, and she hadn't made any snide comments about the locals. She had asked us for help because she probably had more in common with me and Jasper than the collection of douchebags in the laundry room.

"Are you okay?" she asked, patting me on the back. I poured myself a glass of water, and gulped it down.

"Yeah, totally fine. Just went down the wrong tube."

"I hate when that happens," she said.

I nodded, managed a small smile. "Me, too."

"Hey, you two should come by the north shore sometime," she said. "I get sick of hanging out with Edward all the time."

"We'd love to," Jasper said, before I could politely decline. I couldn't even begin to imagine myself on a yacht, drinking champagne and talking politics. Isn't that what people did on yachts? I had only ever seen them in the movies, and that was the impression I got.

"Great!" she squealed. Jasper seemed similarly thrilled, but I had my reservations. Rosalie would never, in a million years, let me live this one down. Bella on a yacht. I could hear her laughing already.

"You know, maybe he's outside," she said. "Do you guys want to check out back?"

"Sure," Jasper said, once again speaking before I had a chance to get a word out.

"I think I might actually head home," I said, and Alice's face fell.

"You can't leave yet! You have to meet my brother. Please, Bella?"

I sighed, tried to act nonchalant. "Maybe another time."

"Don't be lame, Bells," Jasper said, sparing me the charade of being polite. Alice didn't seem the type to force me, but I knew Jasper wouldn't let me out of this one so easily.

"Um," I mumbled, staring at my drink.

"Bella is shy around people of the male species," Jasper explained.

"Jasper!" I hissed.

Alice giggled. "It's okay, Bella. I promise you Edward is not at all intimidating."

Oh, right. Had she actually looked at her brother recently? Had she not noticed how drop-dead gorgeous he was? Maybe sisters didn't notice that kind of thing.

"All right," I agreed, my beer sloshing over the cup as Alice grasped me by the wrist and led me outside. She had a very palpable, very contagious energy about her, like an appreciation for life that you only really understood if you had almost lost it. I wondered for a fleeting second if there was more to Alice's past than she let on.

We walked down the patio steps to the cool, wet grass, the voices of the party fading as we went. I kept my eyes fixed on that tree, the one from earlier, but he wasn't there anymore. Maybe he really had gone home.

"I don't see him," Alice said, her voice infused with a hint of worry.

"Did you try calling him?" Jasper asked.

"I left my phone at home…I really don't use it during the summer. Kind of like an escape from technology, I guess."

"Does Edward have his?"

"I think so," she said.

"Use my phone," Jasper said. "He's probably just passed out in a bush somewhere."

She nodded, managed a weak smile. After the third ring, someone who must have been Edward picked up the phone, his beautiful voice muffled by the poor reception.

Alice talked to him for a few minutes, her conversation interrupted by the sound of someone's voice behind us.

"Boo!"

Alice whirled around. "Edward! Stop creeping up on people like that!"

"Sorry," he muttered, a sheepish grin on his face. I started to blush for no reason at all, but at least we were outside. The rampant blushing would just make this encounter that much more awkward.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"On the phone," he said, his voice just as melodic and beautiful and sultry as I remembered. "I couldn't get good reception out here."

_Of course you couldn't_, I felt like saying. This whole island was practically a dead zone.

"Well, since I had the good sense to abandon my phone for the summer, Jasper and Bella were nice enough to help me find you."

"That would be me," Jasper said, shaking Edward's hand. "Good to meet you."

"You, too," Edward said. "I'm Edward by the way."

"So we heard," Jasper said, smirking at Alice. My God he moved fast.

I met Edward's gaze for the second time that night, his hand suspended in the air for just a moment too long. I shook it quickly, and forced a smile.

"I'm Edward," he said. "Thanks for rescuing my sister."

I shrugged. "Sure," I said, choosing to say as few words as possible to keep all the word vomit in my head from making an appearance.

After an awkward silence, I shuffled my feet and tried to think of an excuse to abandon these three. Sure, Edward seemed nice enough, but that didn't mean I had to like him. He was still a shoobie.

"So I was telling Jasper and Bella that they should come by the house sometime," Alice said, a hopeful look on her face. Even though Edward was her little brother, she seemed to defer to him on some things. Maybe inviting guests to the yacht was one of them.

But Edward just smiled that crooked smile of his, the one that had taken my breath away so many years ago. If I had said something then, would things be different now? Would he remember who I was?

"You guys really should," he said. "Alice is already sick of me."

She slapped his arm, eliciting a fake yelp of pain from Edward.

"Maybe next week?" she asked, an expectant look on her face as she glanced at Jasper, then at me.

"Sounds great," Jasper said. "No plans for me next week."

"I actually have to work," I said. "Thanks for the invite, though."

"All week?" Jasper asked, giving me the same look Rosalie would have used. Kind of like a death glare.

"Well, most nights. And I work mornings and afternoons on weekends."

"Where do you work?" Alice asked.

"At the diner," I said, eyeing their faces for a reaction. A lot of the shoobies stopped associating with me when they heard that. Maybe they assumed that a waitress wasn't worth talking to.

But Alice and Edward didn't react like most people did; if anything, they seemed intrigued.

"Really? I love that place, "Alice said. "I haven't been there in years, though. We'll stop in this week."

"Uh, okay," I said, looking up at Jasper, feeling his death glare still on me. For his sake, I knew I had to rectify this. "But, um, I'd like to come by the north shore some time. Maybe once I have a better idea of my schedule."

"Anytime!" she squealed, her smile just as wide as before. Edward didn't say anything, but he didn't look displeased. I couldn't tell what the hell he was thinking, which frustrated me. He kept his searing green eyes fixed on mine, his gaze so intense that I could feel the blush in my cheeks spreading all the way down to my collarbone.

"Anyway, I should go," I said. "I have to work tomorrow."

"Okay," Alice said, her smile fading slightly. But it brightened again when she looked at Jasper, who was downright glowing at this new development. Apparently my weak attempt to mollify the situation had succeeded.

I turned around, giving Jasper a knowing smirk of approval as I headed back up the patio stairs. But it was Edward's voice that stopped me as I walked away, my heart stuttering in my chest as he spoke my name.

For six years, I had wondered what his name was. And for six years, I wondered what it would be like for him to say mine.

It was better than I imagined. So much better.

"It was nice to meet you, Bella," he said, with a crooked smile that was a little bit shy, and little bit curious.

"You, too," I said.

I hoped he didn't see my hands shaking as I headed up the stairs.

***

I was up at six the next morning, waiting tables by seven. Rosalie had the day off, which she had planned in preparation for a massive hangover. I knew I would hear all about it later this weekend. When I left last night, there were at least four guys fighting over her, vying for her attention with promises of boat rides and picnics.

Ha, I thought. If she only knew about the yacht.

As much as I tried to dismiss the thought from my mind, I couldn't stop thinking about that stupid party. First the failed eavesdropping, then the yacht, then Edward actually speaking to me. To say I had been cold would be an understatement. I had barely cracked a smile, and I had shaken his hand with the enthusiasm of a dead fish.

The fantasies that last for years and years never live up to the reality. But this one did. This one exceeded them, if that was even possible. I had seen him a few times over the years, usually at the very beginning and end of summer. He never saw me, not like that first summer. But I would see him from a distance, and remember the happiest Fourth of July of my life as if it were yesterday.

When he saw me last night, I could tell he didn't remember me. I had changed since then, so maybe he simply didn't recognize me. I wasn't tall, but 5'4" wasn't a horrible height for a girl. My hair was still a long, dark brown, with soft, annoying curls that I always brushed into a ponytail. My legs were a little too long for my body, and I tripped more than I liked to admit. Fortunately, the regulars at the diner didn't mind that their food went flying when I tripped over my own feet. It hadn't happened in a while, but it was still embarrassing, and not the least bit sexy.

For these reasons alone, I should have grown out of the Edward fantasy a long time ago. Shoobies came and went, leaving us behind. Angela had tried to keep things going with one of them last summer, but it only lasted a month before he cheated on her. I couldn't understand why anyone would put herself through that.

So I tried, unsuccessfully, to eliminate him from my consciousness over the next few days. I had off on Sunday, but when Monday afternoon came around, I could see Rosalie already salivating for details. I didn't even have the chance to put on my apron before she cornered me in the kitchen, while Ben pretended he wasn't listening.

"Bella Marie Swan," Rosalie said, wagging a finger at me. "Tell me you didn't meet Alice and Edward Cullen at Angela's party Friday night."

"The…wait…those were the _Cullen_ kids?"

The Cullen family had the reputation for being Shaw Island's wealthiest summer visitors, and they had owned their mansion on the north shore for as long as anyone could remember. In fact, a few people believed they owned the whole island. And they didn't come here for the allure of Shaw Island (since there really wasn't much of an allure at all). They came here to disappear, to spend a few months of the year outside of the public eye. Very few people interacted with them since they so rarely came into town. If the Cullens needed something, they had a hundred people at their beck and call. Or so I heard.

"Christ, Bella. How many people on this island own yachts?"

"Well, I don't know," I mumbled. "I figured it was a small one."

She laughed, shaking her head as she tied her apron around her waist. She tied her hair up into a ponytail—something she hated to do—and checked her pockets for a functional pen.

"It's not," she said. "It's huge. It's like a cruise ship."

"How do you know?"

"I've seen it, Bella. You've seen it, too."

"Those are actual cruise ships out there, Rosalie. On their way to Alaska."

"Psh, not all of them. Next time I spot the Cullen yacht, I'll point it out to you."

"Whatever," I grumbled. "Did Jasper tell you all this?"

"Yes, and he told me that they invited you to their palace in the woods. He also told me you turned them down, you dope!"

Her tone was light, but her voice held the unmistakable hint of sincerity. Everyone wondered about the Cullen mansion. You could only see it from the water, and even then, the trees blocked most of the view. But every single inhabitant of Shaw Island knew about the Cullen family and their magnificent house on the bluffs.

"I didn't turn them down. I told them I'd go when my schedule opens up."

"Bella, come on. You've been working here for a thousand years. Don't give me bullshit about a schedule."

"Why in the world would I go up there? What purpose does that serve? To feel like a servant in someone else's house? No thank you."

She shook her head. "Why should that even matter? The girl invited you. You're her guest, not her slave. You're so damn sensitive sometimes."

"I am not _sensitive_," I protested. "I just have no desire to see someone's fancy house."

"You think they'll judge you. You're worried that the whole time you're there, they'll just be feeling sorry for you."

"I wasn't thinking that at all," I said, but I could hear the slight tremor in my voice. Why should I care what people thought about me, and my life, and my home? I had liked Alice, and I didn't think she would ever judge me. But my insecurities came from somewhere, and I didn't want to crack under the pressure of someone like Edward Cullen.

"Then go," Rosalie said. "Next time you see them, tell them you want to see the damn yacht."

I groaned. "On one condition."

"What?" she asked, shooting me a skeptical glance.

"You have to come," I said. "I'm not going just with Jasper. He'll pair up with Alice, and I'll be stuck with…with…"

"Edward," she said, with that evil glint in her eye. I knew that glint. Shit, how much had Jasper told her?

"Yes, Edward," I said, trying to sound indifferent. But my overactive blood vessels betrayed me, and I blushed under Rosalie's questioning gaze.

"You aim high, Bella Swan," she said, chuckling to herself.

"Oh come on," I said, swatting her with a dishtowel. "In what universe would I actually have a chance with Edward Cullen?"

"Well, think about it," she said. "He has everything at his fingertips. Money, girls, yachts. Every guy wants what he can't have."

"He wouldn't want me, Rosalie. And I sure as hell don't want a shoobie."

"Which makes you appealing."

"Have you met him, Rose? He's way out of my league, to put it gently."

"Don't give me that shit, Bella. You're a little hottie, and it sounds like this Edward guy had the good sense to recognize it. The fact that he's ridiculously attractive makes this whole thing even more interesting."

I swallowed the lump of saliva in my throat. "Jasper described him to you?"

I could picture Edward going for someone like Rosalie. She was tall, beautiful, confident. She could have any guy she wanted, and she knew it. But you would never describe Rosalie as arrogant; she just carried herself well, like a woman who knows what she has, and uses it to her advantage.

"Mmhm. He also said you acted like the ultimate ice queen."

"That's an exaggeration."

"A frigid bitch, then?"

"Hardly," I huffed. "I was nice."

"Well, the fact that Alice kept her invitation on the table means you didn't totally blow it. And yes, by the way."

"Yes, what?" I asked.

"Yes, I'll come with you to the Cullen mansion," she said, the trace of a smirk on her lips. "And you'll thank me later."

***

It was almost eight when Rosalie left on Thursday night, just a few minutes before closing time. She had a date with one of her frat boy friends, which probably meant watching a movie in someone's basement. The only establishment open late in this town was Gray's Pub, which wasn't exactly high on the list for high school kids. You get hit on by enough creepy old dudes, and you realize it isn't worth it.

I heard the diner's front door creaking on its hinges, meaning someone had ignored the "Closed" sign in the window. Rosalie put it up when she left, but the shoobies liked to pretend it didn't exist.

With a loud, disgruntled groan, I shoved the broom in the corner. No one enjoyed dealing with the entitled losers who thought they could eat here whenever they felt like it, least of all me. But tonight I didn't have much of a choice.

"We're closed…" I said, my voice dying in my throat when I saw who it was.

"Hey, Bella," he said, and his sheepish smile surprised me. Maybe he could sense that I was angry, given the lateness of the hour and the sign on the door. But my anger quickly vanished as I looked at him, his eyes blazing with boyish innocence as he ran his hand through his shock of bronze hair. Edward Cullen had absolutely no reason to be intimidated by me. So why the hell did he look so nervous?

"Hey," I said. "Sorry, but we're closed."

"Oh, yeah, I noticed the sign. I just…uh, just thought I'd stop in since the light was on."

He was standing by the door as if he thought that at any moment I would command him to leave. And I probably should, since we were closed. But with my chores finished and the floors swept, I had no good reason to tell him to go.

"I see," I said. I wondered how many awkward silences we could squeeze into one conversation. Probably a lot.

"Well, anyway," he said. "Sorry to bother you. Maybe I'll see you around town sometime."

"But you don't come in to town," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. His sheepish smile widened a little bit, and he shrugged.

"No," he said. "I guess I don't."

"No one ever sees the Cullens. I wasn't sure you existed at all."

"Who said I was a Cullen?" he asked, and I could feel my face go up in flames. Had Rosalie spun me another one of her tall tales? I swear to God, I'd kick her pretty ass—

"I'm kidding," he said, before I could stutter out an explanation. "You got my last name right."

"I see," I said again, cursing the blush on my cheeks. Whatever upper hand I had possessed in this conversation had rapidly evaporated.

"Your dad is the police chief, right?" he asked.

"What?" I mumbled, losing myself in the searing green of his eyes. It was hard to pay attention to him when he looked at me like that, as if nothing in the world existed for him but me.

"Your dad is Charlie Swan."

"Yeah," I said. "How did you know?"

"The shoobies know as much about the locals as the locals know about us," he said, and my knees almost buckled at the teasing smirk on his face. Shit, he knew about our name for these people?

"Well, you aren't really a shoobie," I said. "Your family has been coming here longer than I've been alive."

"But a shoobie is a summer visitor, right?"

"I guess," I mumbled. My God, this kid was a smooth operator. Maybe he had tired of all the pretty little rich girls, and thought he'd seduce a waitress by calling her out on all her secrets.

Well, hell no. Edward Cullen may own a yacht, but he couldn't just walk in here and expect to whisk me off to his palace in the clouds. Maybe he lived in a fairy tale, but I did not.

"I should really close up," I said. "I'm sorry if you came all the way down here for nothing."

His expression changed, his smile fading at my abrupt tone. I almost regretted it, laying down the law like that. But Edward Cullen and I lived in two different worlds, and I didn't want to muddy the waters. It would be better for both of us if he stayed in his sphere, and I in mine.

"Sure," he said. "Sorry again for coming in here."

I sighed, shook my head. Rosalie would not have approved of this conversation. Hell, she would have crucified me for it.

"It's okay," I said. "I was just leaving anyway."

"I'm parked outside," he said. "I can give you a ride home if you need one."

He held the door for me, and waited as I locked the door behind us. My dad always picked me up after work unless Rosalie drove me home. I could easily call him and tell him I had a ride, but Edward didn't have to know that. I had to just turn him down and nip this strange alliance in the bud.

"I'm good," I said. "My dad will be here in a few minutes."

"Okay," he said, reading the coolness in my tone. I really was an icy bitch. Rosalie would not be proud.

"Thanks, though," I said, making a weak attempt to recover. "I appreciate the offer."

He nodded and walked toward his car, a surprisingly modest silver Volvo. I figured all the Cullens drove Porsches and BMW's, but then again, those kinds of cars would stand out in a town this small. If the Cullens were going for anonymity, a Volvo was probably a better choice.

"Have a good night," he said as he climbed in, and rolled the window down. I thought for a second he might say something else, might even remind me about Alice's invitation from the other night, but he said nothing.

Instead he just revved the engine, and disappeared into the night.

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